Cherubplay

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Doc Scratch would spend the rest of his day in his office if he had any say on it, trying to rationalize himself. He was sure if he brought up the topic with another, they would tell him it was not his fault when internal strife surfaced, and he should certainly try to relax about it. Scratch had a habit of worrying himself over nothing; even if he knew how it ended, his mind would follow the events unfolding obsessively, and simultaneously make them nag at his attention. His mind was extensive, yes, but snagged on things easily. Tiring as it was, he would occasionally require a bit of aid in letting things go, as well as distressing afterward. Seeing Spades Slick last night had done that well, but it seemed tension was mounting again already. Perhaps a visit to Stitch would be in order later on.

He was, in actuality, very surprised last night had gone as well as it had; Slick had the capacity to snap up all of his attention at once, and Scratch found it to be a most welcome distraction. He didn't know what it was, but it was almost as if the world receded when they were together, like he was being brought back down to earth. It was good to feel a bit smaller sometimes, and served as a form of relief to the pale man. The parts of him that were powerful, more god than man, tended to stress the rest of his more mortal form, which was why busy work was a good form of distraction.

Doc Scratch wouldn't call on Stitch before at least two o'clock- the other man was by no means an early bird, and would scold himself for sleeping in even though he hadn't gone to sleep until late at night. He always wanted to be sure the other man was awake and had gotten some coffee before deciding to bother him with anything, though Scratch was one of the few who could visit him beforehand and escape with his life. As good friends as they were, the tailor still had the capacity to be grumpier than any other, and snappy enough to drive others off. Yes, some in the Felt really were not morning people at all.

2014-09-12 16:40:24
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Slick and the rest of the Midnight Crew were up and out of the hatch before long, at first contemplating what vehicle to take, then forced upon the fact that the boss had burned their van to hide his spilt blood in it, and had to pile into the Cadillac. One can only marine the utter distaste on Spades Slick's features in having them in his vehicle. He didn't mind it when Doc Scratch had been in it, seeing that he was someone who would respect keeping their shoes on the floor mats and not on the back of the seats like some footrest. He had to swat Boxcars' shoes with the back of his bionic arm, earning a growl from the bigger brute at such an action, but he got the hint. What irritated him most was the fact Droog was lighting a cigarette (no surprise there). Though, Slick often smoked in his own car, he always had the window open, and always made sure to put his cigarette ashes out of the window instead of in the ashtray.

"You get a single drop of that fuckin' ash in my goddamned car, Imma shove my horse hitcher so far up your ass..." He threatened in a grumble, starting the Cadillac as the other merely smirked from the passenger seat, Boxcars and Deuce taking up the back. Boxcars was almost too big for the vehicle, and would draw a few surprised expressions from an onlooker... If not for the fact he was so intimidating looking. They all could have just walked, that wouldn't have been a problem, however they were all still quite cautious and aware of the fact one may indeed recognize them on the streets, regardless of the fact they weren't wearing their masks. In a minuscule amount of time, the Crew was parking adjacent to the bar, the Cadillac slightly crooked from the lack of patience Slick held in taking the time to park correctly.

"Remember boss, we need to converse with him before you start projecting things at him." Droog mumbled, rearranging his hat slightly as Slick merely grumbled and led them into the bar. The steel door squeaked loudly, though was soon drone out by a paced bass that drummed out the building in a heavy throb. It made the leader's chest vibrate in rhythm. Though, it was morning and not many customers were coming in, a few girls were on break, smoking, and anyone who was currently present was at the bar. There were only two guys, and one more tending the bar whilst cleaning a glass with a handkerchief. He was humming along to the music, smirking to himself, but when he glanced up to see a quite aggravated Spades Slick leaning over his bar for attention, the same glass almost crashed to the floor.

"We need'a talk."

2014-09-12 19:50:58
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Anybody could've guessed that Doc Scratch had never been to a bar, much less the sort Slick was about to, for lack of a better term, shake down. The Felt did have a few partnerships similar to the ones the Midnight Crew did, though they were not only bars; a garage, a parlor of more arcane antiquities, and the odd assortment of small businesses benefitted from their same "protection" policies. Forcing someone to pay up, however, occurred very rarely; nobody quite wanted on their bad side. Up close and in person, a few Felt members could be incredibly intimidating. Thankfully the message was communicated easily. The Midnight Crew was smaller, however, and Scratch could understand if they had issues enforcing their influence. Well, he pitied the bartender, at any rate.

Most of the Felt's heists were not conducted in broad daylight, so the chances of them being recognized when out and about were much slimmer. They were all smart enough not to dress the part of a member when in the city, and no one was ever to bring anybody back to the Manor, as Slick had occasionally done with some women in the past. That might have seemed a bit hypocritical on Scratch's part now, seeing as he had allowed Spades Slick to come in, and he posed much more of a threat to them than really anybody else. Scratch was equal parts mortified and satisfied with what he'd done, though the latter was much more prevalent in him. It was unlike him, really, to glean such amusement from misbehavior, especially his own. He never acted out, but he had now, even though nobody knew. But he could not deny a certain sense of elation at having gotten away with such risks, but why? Scratch was not a rebel by anyone's standards- except perhaps his own.

He did not even worry about Slick using his current knowledge of Felt Manor's layout against them later on somehow; he'd hardly seen any of it in all reality. The ground floor was an absolute maze once one got past the foyer and into the slim, crisscrossing halls beyond, not to mention the fact it was riddled with clocks. That would be sure to drive him off the edge, Scratch thought dismissively. The Felt were also incredibly suited to their surroundings by this point, and through the use of "strategically formed barriers" (crates and upended furniture, most likely) could alter the floor plan to their advantage, turning the green mansion into a very dangerous bastion. In addition to that, a direct attack on the Manor was one of the few circumstances in which Scratch could see himself taking direct offensive action against the Midnight Crew. It was the only home he'd ever known, after all, and he would do what he would to protect it from aggressors, no matter who they were.

2014-09-12 22:51:11
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In a few yanks and barks, Slick has the bartender shoved into his office located down a hall behind the bar. It was quiet in there, or at least until Slick shoves the guy down in a swivel chair located at his desk with a curt, "sit down 'n' listen up" before looking about the office. It was all concrete, except for one window that ha blinds currently blocking the sunlight from pouring it. The light still peeked through the cracks, illuminating the room in enough brightness to allow Spades Slick to navigate about effortlessly. In which case, he decided to sit himself on the edge of the owner's desk, picking up his paperweight from a stack of papers and envelopes that must have been overdue bills for the bar being open in the city. It had 'Warning' stamped upon the outside of the envelopes, practically begging for attention as the Crew leader tossed the paperweight idly in the air, an catching it repeatedly in his hand.

"So... Crocker. I hear ya ain't been payin' my boys in awhile. What's goin' on?" He asked casually, as if it were an everyday conversation and he wasn't in fact itching to throw the object in his hand at the tense man sitting a bit disheveled in his seat.

"I... I just haven't had the time... Y-you know how it is." He nodded his head in a vigorous way, slightly hoping Slick would be understanding...

Spades Slick was not an understanding man, nor was he patient. He didn't particularly feel impressed by the other's half assed excuse, and snorted softly.

"Oh? Really? So the countless customers that come in here aren't payin' up? Ain't that somethin' my boys take care of? I think you're insultin' me. I think you're tryin' t'a say I ain't doin' a good job at keepin' the scum outta here; is that what it is?"

"N-no! Certainly not! I.. I was just... I don't have the money is what I'm trying to explain. I haven't even paid my bills, how can I-?"

"Shh-ch-ch-ch. 'S a'ight..." Slick sighed, making a helpless expression as he slid off of the desk, eyeing the object in his hand. It seemed the owner was always looking at the paperweight, but with dear and disdain rather then contemplation. He swallowed dryly as the Crew leader came closer and rested a hand on his desk, leaning forward and tilting his head to the side in a curious manner.

"... I want my money Crocker. 'N' you're late on it. Y'know what people like me do t'a people like ya?" It wasn't debatable that Slick may have been a sadist, if his characteristic and actions were anything to go off of. He didn't simply enjoy hurting someone, he enjoyed the buildup to such a point. One getting hurt was inevitable when dealing with him, though how it progressed to such an instance was another story. It was never abrupt, unless he was thoroughly pissed and unable to wait another second or so. But now, he was taking his time, fingers curled around the weight as he awaited an answer from the bartender.

"... Y-you... Give them another... Chance?" Crocker replied slowly, hesitantly, almost tasting the lie in his own tone as his baby blue eyes glanced up at Slick, and the taller's face hadn't changed a fraction of an inch.

"Ah..." The darkly dressed man replied, nodding subtly before sighing. "... /Wrong/." He snapped, and abruptly cracked the object in his hand against the man's temple, growling and baring his fangs in an animalistic way that entirely contradicted his affectionate side. It was as if he hadn't had a single empathetic bone in his body, let alone sympathy. He was thoroughly aggravated by this point, and was honestly contemplating killing the man. However, when his mechanical claws curled in the other's raven locks, yanking his head back before slamming it into the surface of his desk, Crocker cried out a sharp, "WAIT!" Spades stopped, sneering.

"I can give you something better then money!"

2014-09-13 01:20:32
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Doc Scratch didn't need to be told Stitch was having trouble sleeping, among other things. He looked noticeably more haggard than usual, though Scratch's sense of perception was appropriately heightened due to his nature, and that could've just been him taking it into account. Nevertheless, the man seemed rightfully grim when Scratch called on him later on in the afternoon. Scratch disliked seeing him, or anyone really, like that. The frown lines etched in his tan skin seemed deeper, and his overall countenance wearier. Everyone seemed to be feeling that way save a few, and Scratch felt responsible though he should have known better than to pin it on himself. But sometimes he couldn't help but see the Felt as a bunch of small children he'd been left in charge of. Sometimes the fights they had and trouble they got into were all too reminiscent of those toddlers would get into, but they were adults, and therefore more potent.

For the most part, their conversation was a meld of 'we don't get paid enough for this' and telling each other to take a load off. That was what most of the friendship was based off of, in all reality; accentuated levels of complaining and gratuitous empathy from both sides, highlighted by shared opinions and tastes. Scratch thought it was good for the both of them, really. Even so, he could almost see Spades Slick getting a bit possessive over it. The thought made him smirk in the middle of the conversation, which immediately made Stitch think something was up. The imagery of Slick gritting his fangs and getting aggravated over something like that wasn't something the tailor had to be privy to, but it was nothing short of entertaining.

While Spades Slick did enjoy his own brand of annoying the Felt leader to a worrying extent, Doc Scratch would admit to a proclivity towards the same. While in his more unflappable moods, Scratch was capable of returning anything that might've been dishes out to him with occasionally disconcerting ease, and seeing Slick sputter and curse was occasionally just as satisfying as seeing him any other way. He understood the feeling was mutual between them, however, and Slick would not stop trying to be bothersome simply because he could. Scratch found it childish in a more endearing way, and was glad he wouldn't be looked on disparagingly if he happened to return the behavior.

2014-09-13 03:34:17
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At first, he was perplexed. He didn't know what was "better then money", however this man looked to be willing to give anything but his own safety at this point. Curiously, Slick stares down at him, narrowing his eye before slowly uncurling his fingers from his hair. As he did so, Crocker inhaled sharply and yanked away, flinching as he automatically thought he'd be his again. It would have earned a snort in any other situation.

"Well, what the hell is it?" He questioned sharply, waiting for an explanation. The other merely nodded quickly, blood trickling down his temple, before leaning over to the side and opening a drawer that had been locked in the desk. He had a key hidden around his neck, black and palm sized. Carefully then, he tugged out a small black and white checkered box that didn't look any bigger then a few inches or so. This automatically caught his interest, icy hue pinned on the box that seemed to open and close like that of a ring's case.

"I-it's... A family heirloom... My grandmother's grandmother owned this." He explained quietly, setting the box down on his desk, but in a manner that was almost hesitant and... Terrified?

"It's undoubtedly worth more then what I owe you, but... It's all I have. It's quite o-old, though. And there is a legend that goes with it..."

Spades Slick couldn't care less about the other's background information that went along with the ring. In fact, he was too busy picking it up and opening the kid to said box to get a look at the ring. It was a solid gold band, with four pearls molded into the gold on four differentiating spots on the outside of it. They were all equally spaced out between one another, and the object itself looked almost priceless. Droog would probably know the full worth of such an item after taking a look at it, and slowly started to take the ring out of the box.

"-and that's why you shouldn't wear it." Crocker finished shakily, pushing his glasses up his nose and watching Slick now. At the mention of not wearing it, he glances down at Crocker and scowls.

"Why shouldn't I wear it?"

"C-cause it's... Something /bad/ may indeed happen. I haven't tested it out myself, I'm too... Scared to." He mumbled, shrinking away as the taller growled and held the ring up between his thumb and forefinger.

"... This'll do, nonetheless. Good boy, ya did somethin' pleasant for once." Instead of sliding on such an item, he puts it back in the box and stuffs it into his blazer pocket without further interrogating.

"Now, was that so hard? All it was was a li'l coaxin' on your side, 'n' we gotta deal. Try to keep payin' up, or next time, I'll let Boxcars in here. 'N' I won't stop whatever instinct comes to mind; ya do know he has had a few incidences in devouring people, yea?" He prompted in a curious manner, then smirked, and started to walk away.

He wouldn't be able to tell, but the relief on Crocker's face wasn't just because Slick was leaving him alone for now, but because that accursed ring was walking right out of his office and out of his hands as well. That damned thing always have him the creeps; like it would call to him, begging to be slipped on, and Crocker didn't know how much longer he could have resisted temptation for. It was a maddening item, though whether that was true or not was up to debate. He does know for a fact, though, there is something eerily wrong with that ring... He was just glad he didn't have to deal with it anymore.

Slick came out of Crocker's office with his hands in his slack pockets and a bored look on his expression. He had been hoping to spill a bit more blood then he had, but don't want the name of someone who just flat out killed their customer for no apparent reason. That was just bad business all around. He sighed then as he found the ret of the Crew conversing at the bar, taking whatever drink they wished and downing it. Deuce wasn't exactly allowed to have more then a few shots or so; he was quite the lightweight and prone to more havoc then anyone else in the Crew when drunk.

2014-09-13 14:10:16
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"In my opinion, if they're gonna act like children, treat 'em like children."

Doc Scratch hummed lightly in response, hands laced behind him; he pressed them downward, toward the small of his back, to stretch out his shoulders and push his thin chest out with a quiet sigh.

"Hey. Get outta there." Stitch said mildly, raising his head to look over at Scratch.

If the Felt's leader had any less decorum, he'd stick his green tongue out at his cohort; they both knew he'd do no harm to the effigies. Stitch was incredibly stalwart on not even letting anybody on that side of the room, so high were the chances an accident could occur. As useful as they were, the effigies really were the weakest point of the group, another reason Scratch had to defend the Manor himself if ever there were an assault on it. That was one of the things Scratch hoped dearly would never come to pass- he'd hate to receive anyone who came by in such a coarse, violent way. But what had to be done would be done, in the end.

Scratch was, unsurprisingly, the only one who did not have an effigy hanging. He very well could have, yes, but it would've been entirely useless in the process of healing wounds. Conversely, it would have been more effective in harming him than any other tactic there was, which was why Scratch possessing one would be nothing more than a crutch. It was also why the others' likenesses had to be protected at all costs. Scratch walked between them now, barely brushing by the lifeless models. Snowman's was immaculate, barely touched, in stark contrast to almost everyone else's- except Clover, of course. Crowbar had long stitches on his, from where he'd been on the receiving end of a few knives in the past. On some occasions Stitch would graft new fabric to the effigies, but that was a long and careful process that usually resulted in the disappearance of scars. Scratch paused to inspect a few, out of what appeared to be mild interest. Eggs' was still a bit misshapen from that incident where Hearts Boxcars had tried to eat his head, and Matchsticks' was battered as ever.

Another sigh was heard as Scratch emerged from the cluster of hanging effigies, and Stitch nodded in accordance to show he felt the same way. For a few seconds, a vague sense of upset was present in Scratch, almost a threat to conduct some sort of tantrum due to the present and mounting drama; that wouldn't do, however, so in place of it he frowned deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose to dispel the stinging sensation there. He loathed that more than anything, perhaps.

"You recall that saying you once told me?" Scratch said, waving his hand dismissively as he leaned against Stitch's desk. The other man nodded after a brief pause, crossing his arms where he sat.

"What's going to happen us going to happen-"

"Just make sure it doesn't happen to you." Scratch finished for him, inclining his head slowly. "I... Don't think that applies to me after all."

2014-09-13 16:39:00
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"A'ight, let's go boys. I got what we needed. 'Sides-" he starts, walking over to the three and bringing a hand down on Droog's shoulder to snag his attention. "-I need your help with somethin' Droogster."

"Please refrain from calling me that. I was fine with it when we were kids, but now it's degrading."

"Perfect reason why I use it." He smirked at the taller, watching him sigh and sip from his glass of what seemed to be scotch. Unlike Deuce, Boxcars, and Slick, Droog preferred drinking from a glass or cup rather then out of a bottle. Something about germs? Slick wasn't too sure, nor had he paid attention when the other explained himself.

When the other two heated it was time to go, they groaned and automatically started to complain. Of course, this only started a pathetic argument with the three men, two against one really, and usually the Crew leader won his arguments, but today the two wanted to have a few drinks or so, regardless of the time.

"Look, we'll be back in'na hour or so, bass. Ain't somethin' ya got a worry 'bout. I watch Deuce good." Boxcars pointed out, and really, how could one argue with him. Aside from the fact he was the biggest brute in the Midnight Crew, he could be quite protective when he wanted to; hence the "Hearts" in his name.

"... A'ight, y'know what, fine. But ya gotta be back before nightfall, cause then you'll never come back once them people start comin' through those fuckin' doors." His mechanical thumb pointed over his shoulder for emphasis at the steel door, then came back to rest at his side as the two nodded.

"But Droog, you're comin' with me." He pronounced stubbornly, making a motion with his hand for the other man to follow. Unlike Deuce and Boxcars, whatever the boss said, goes... Unless Droog was aggravated and at the point of hostility that would surpass even Spades Slick, then he would go his own way. For now though, he merely sighed and downed the rest of his drink before standing up and following after the shorter Crew leader.

"Are we taking the car?"

"Of course we're takin' the fuckin' car; ya really think Imma let those two idiots sit unattended in my babe? Ya must be jokin'." He mumbled, sliding into his car after he unlocked it, and awaited the other to promptly sit in the passenger seat before closing their doors and heading back to the hideout. The two idiots in the bar could wall home, and if there was indeed a problem, Boxcars always carried his radio on hand, so they would be fine.

Once back in the hatch, Slick tossed aside his hat on the kitchen cabinet, and sat himself at the kitchen table whilst fishing out the checkered colored box.

"Go get your kit." He ordered. Droog stood there a bit perplexed, mainly because he had a few kits and couldn't decide which one was needed at the moment.

"... Mind specifying which one, boss?"

"The shit with the fuckin' thing for jewelry."

"Such colorful language..." Droog mumbled on his way to his own room, slightly smirking however. He knew what the other meant, and as Slick was busy opening the box and taking the ring out, he idly started to spin it at the table. The only thing tht was certainly odd about this ring was that, instead of being cold from the lack of being touched, it was instead quite warm, even bordering the line of being mildly hot. As if it were honing unmeasured amounts of power in it. Before he could really decide as to what was up with the item, the taller was back with a briefcase and setting it on the table, in clasping the side of it and opening it up.

2014-09-13 19:19:15
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"What do you mean by that?" Stitch did a poor job at concealing the concern that laced his tone, which was rather uncharacteristic of the gruff man. Suffice it to say, Doc Scratch was not the one he had to worry about most times. The latter could've let out a sardonic laugh at that fact, but didn't.

"I suppose I'm merely festering again." Scratch said with a sigh, convincing himself he was just being dramatic about the situation.

"Ya know that's never a good thing." Stitch said, likely meaning to chastise him but failing to sound strict by any means, instead more than a bit worried. It was a sorry sight to see when Scratch's mood dropped.

The First Guardian nodded, wrapping his arms around his torso and looking down at his shoes. His own mind could be an insidious thing, and he supposed it came with the weight of all his knowledge, which was a burden whenever it wasn't being helpful.

Similar to Spades Slick feeling he needed to conceal his own worries, doubts, and faults, Scratch felt as if he were constantly being observed under a microscope. It had to have been a combination of his appearance and leadership position, the latter being the one which supplied the most pressure. It was difficult for someone like him to find the proper medium when considering his activity within the group; if his influence was too great, they would become dependent and complacent. If it was too little, he would be construed as distant and uncaring. He wanted neither, and sought a proper balance. Sometimes it was hard for Scratch not to look straight at the end of all things and focus on the present, likewise it was difficult to show appropriate concern when it was warranted.

Scratch supposed his own mental woes mattered little in the grand scheme of things. He could worry about the future and regret the past all he wanted, or didn't, but was still not permitted to change it. For all his power, he was still under a degree of subjugation, still had limits imposed on him. What was going to happen was going to happen, yes, but without a doubt it'd happen to Scratch.

The pale man was snapped out of his reverie when he felt a hand on his shoulder- Stitch's, wide and worn. He looked up as if startled, then at the other expectantly. He got half a smile, the side of his face that wasn't scarred pulling upward, charming in its own way.

"Things'll be alright. Not today, not tomorrow. But eventually." He said.

Stitch was good at addressing things he knew nothing about; Scratch supposed it was that sort of maturity that came with age. Stitch was one of the older ones, certainly, and sometimes Scratch thought he was capable of seeing straight through him. He hoped not- there were a lot of things Scratch wished to keep from him especially.

2014-09-14 00:16:16
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Slick had passed the ring to Droog eventually, the silver eyed man giving the item a perplexed look before looking to the other.

"Where did you acquire this?"

"Crocker gave it to me."

"Ah. I see, so this is the payment, yes?"

"Yea, jus' check it out t'a make sure it ain't some bull shit fake."

Droog nods once, taking out a caliper from the briefcase and measuring the width of the ring itself. Gold was a heavy metal, and a ring such as the one in his hand had a respectable weight, and a thin width. Usually, if the gold was fake or merely iron stained with a gold color, it would have a considerable width, about twice the size to compensate for it's light weight. So, by the looks of it, the ring was real. He gave a satisfied arch of his brow at that, handing it back to Slick.

"I hadn't known of the man holding something as priceless as that."

"He said it was some family air-loon or some shit like that."

"... Heirloom?"

"Yea, that thing." Droog shakes his head at the other, but doesn't rebuke him on the matter. Instead, he merely gestured to the ring and gave a quick, "Why don't you put it on?"

"Ya must be kiddin' me. I ain't puttin' this shit on, it's a fuckin' weddin' band by the look of it." Slick snapped, curling a fist around the item in his hand and baring his fangs slightly at the taller. Droog merely shrugged.

"It was just a suggestion. What's wrong with it?"

"Other then the fact your idea is stupid? I dunno." Sarcasm tainted his words to the core, leaning back in his seat as the silver eyes man rolled those bullet colored hues.

"I meant, why did he give it to you. Besides the fact you were probably attempting to beat his skull in, it's an heirloom, something that's been in the family for generations. Why would he simply give that up?"

Spades Slick paused at that, furrowing his brow and rummaging through his head to temper what Crocker had said.

"... He said I shouldn't put it on. Somethin' 'bout bad luck? I dunno, he was ramblin' 'n' I zoned out."

"Oh of course you did."

"Shuttahp. He was blubberin' 'n' shit, y'know I don't deal with that. Anyway, he kept sayin' "bad" 'n' "cursed" repeatedly, so that's another reason why I won't put it on." This definitely earned an amused smirk from Diamonds. "What?"

"... You won't put it on, over some witch's tale? Oh, you're just full of surprises."

At that money, Droog stood up from his seat, chuckling.

"NO! I ain't gonna put it on 'cause 's stupid, that's why!"

"Sure boss, whatever you say~" The other replied in a sing-songy tone, packing up his briefcase and watching the shorter man fume.

"Y'know what, this thing is worth money, so soon it'll be outta my damned hands 'n' made into green. Then, ya ain't gonna have any room to patronize me."

"Oh, now you're being childish."

"/YOU/ started it!"

Well, Spades Slick certainly could be childish, but before the conversation could continue, he stood up with a growl, narrowing his icy hue at the other.

"I'm goin' out for a smoke." Droog made no move to stop him, merely grinning and chuckling lightly as the other disappeared from the kitchen with the box and ring.

2014-09-14 00:59:39
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For all his omniscience, Doc Scratch could not say he and any clue what Eggs and Biscuits were doing. They seemed to be playing a game where, while Scratch was playing the piano, they would jump around and make some poor, uncoordinated attempt at dancing (he was pretty sure that was what it was) until Scratch paused and looked up, at which point they would freeze and act as if they were statues and had not been moving at all. The two really were nothing but overgrown children in this state; thankfully it was one of their less destructive settings. Neither of them liked seeing Scratch angry about their antics, so they tried to be on their best behavior when he was in the room. Scratch found it endearing.

A waltz from Strauss, Tales from the Vienna Woods, was what sounded throughout the second floor parlor, one that was of moderate size and the chairs in which had been pushed against the walls. The two Felt members didn't recognize it, of course, but they though it sounded pretty. Scratch felt much the same; waltzes had to be his favorite style of music. Anything in triple time was good, really, he was not picky. Scratch, while playing, had his mind emptied; this was more of a physical motion than anything. There wasn't even any music set out in front of him- he knew all the notes without having ever glanced at a sheet of music, and his hands knew where to go and when. He'd never had to learn the song, which he considered a bit disappointing. It would've been nice to have had to practice something like this beforehand, but his omniscience rendered that as pointless as it did many other things. While he had the capacity to play the piano, and did it well, it was not his preferred instrument. That would have been the violin, and he was not in possession of one.

The piano playing served three very important purposes. It kept Doc Scratch himself busy and vaguely content, pleased with the music, firstly; secondly, it kept Eggs and Biscuits vastly entertained, to the point they gave up on their game after a while and simply laid sprawled on the middle of the floor, panting and laughing breathlessly. Scratch enjoyed seeing it, and as he finished the piece he bridged directly into another, something newer, in order to serve the third purpose, which was drowning out the shouts from down the hall. He didn't want to subject the other two to that, fully aware it would upset them. So, with an increasingly grim sense of focus, Scratch continued to play.

2014-09-14 02:58:15
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Once outside, he went to his car located at the end of the street. His pack of cigarettes were still sitting in the glove box, and he hadn't had enough patience to ask Droog for one instead. Quickly, he took the cig between his lips, glancing around swifty then before lighting it with a burst of his own purple flames from his fingertips. It was only a matter of relaxing then, leaning against his Cadillac with the door open and the pack being pocketed next to the small box. He pauses at that then, humming before slipping the box out again. Smoke leaves his nostrils as he opens the object, and slips out the ring to look if over once more.

"Fuckin' Droog... Doesn't know shit..." He grumbled, tossing the box into the passenger side seat. It was then the creeping sensation of curiosity clawed it's way through his nerves, racking his system with unusual contemplation. Should he out it on? Would he be considered superstitious for even taking Crocker's words into consideration? Probably. Would he be labeled a pansy for not simply putting the ring on? Undoubtedly... Is it worth the probable risk? Maybe.

With one last narrowing of his blue eye at the item, he started to slowly shift it to maneuver it upon his index finger. He certainly would not put it on his ring-finger, not even for money, and that was saying something. At first, he didn't feel any different. In fact, he felt relaxed that maybe the whole "curse" hoopla had been just that; bull shit. It wasn't until he fully had the ring on, touching his knuckle and fitting quite perfectly, did he feel the tingling sensation of what could only be described as static and electricity running up his spine and through his entire system. It was a trickle at first, something he tried to shrug off, but as quickly as it started, it began to intensify at an alarming rate. The tingles turned into clawing, racking up his back and biting at his nerves, rendering the simple task of breathing to be a bit difficult. Sharply, he inhaled, jaw a bit slack as his fangs felt heavy and he had the slight assumption that he may indeed pass out from the intensity of the electrical current flowing through his skin. Upon further inspection, he could literally depict the jumping of sparks snaking through his skin. Not only that, but his bones seemed to feel a bit heavier as well. Everything was heavy and painful, bordering the line of nearly excruciating. Before much more could happen to himself however, he shakily tugged off the ring. It may have taken a few seconds or so, but to Slick it had been an eternity.

By the time he had the ring shoved back into his pocket, he was panting, clutching the door to his vehicle in an effort to just stand upright. His cigarette had tumbled to the floor (what a waste) and everything seemed to slowly move by as he regained his composure. It took a few minutes, longer then it usually took for him to go on a small smoke break. He does finally find his footing after awhile, sighing through his fangs and kicking the cig on the floor off to the side somewhere. Well, he'll be damned if he puts that ring on again. It felt horrid, but... There was some sense of utter... Hatred, in sync with the increased potency of the electrical currents. It made blood lust seem meek and childlike compared to the unimaginable black hatred that had been attempting to flow through his veins, tempting him to just let go of all sanity and go headlong into the dark waves of hostility. It was... Invigorating and troubling at the same time. No, he wouldn't and shouldn't put the ring back on. For if he did, he may not take it off again.

2014-09-14 04:15:12
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The parlor windows displayed a darkened sky already; it was too early to be that dark, and Scratch assumed they had rain moving in. Just as well, he enjoyed the weather when he could. Of course, the winter months in the city were nothing short of harrowing, and could turn the urban areas into a cold gray concrete background, slim alleyways and streets forming wind tunnels of frigid air. Bitter cold was perhaps worse on its own; snow seemed to lessen the blow somehow. Things were dangerous in the dead of winter, when invisible ice laced the roads and the cold seemed to seep into the pale man's bones. Scratch wasn't personally familiar with direct exposure to the winter elements, but maybe this year it would change. He already knew he preferred the sticky sort of heat and the powerful storms that came with summer to any sort of cold season.

Once things down the hall had settled enough, Scratch escorted Eggs and Biscuits out of the parlor himself. The last thing he wanted was an accident with the piano taking place; the instrument had to be the second oldest thing in all of Felt Manor (the first being Scratch himself, obviously). If ever they asked, Doc Scratch could not bring himself to refuse cooking something for the duo, especially considering it was near to dinnertime and kept them from trying to do it themselves. They were certain to make a huge mess, and probably make it worse when trying to clean it, and were always forgetting to turn the stove off- a habit that must've made Matchsticks' blood pressure spike considerably whenever he came upon it. It was safest somebody else did it for them, or they just had something simple like cereal. Eggs and Biscuits were another pair Scratch wouldn't have recruited for the Felt; they were tall and strong, this was true, but mentally they weren't all there, and didn't understand their really power. Again Scratch would have to grin and bear it, however, knowing he was not the one who had been responsible for it.

After that was over and done with, Scratch could not say there was much left for him to do. He settled upon going to the second floor library, which was, by now, entirely dark. There was a bit of a design flaw in the room in that there were no electrical lights inside; there were three tall, wide windows and a fireplace at the front of the room, however, and during the day one could draw the curtains back and fill the room with a soft white-gold glow from the sun. It would turn the still air of the room pleasantly warm, and Scratch enjoyed that. At night, the hearth could be lit, and the flames would send tall shadows shifting throughout the large room. No one had started a fire as yet, and Scratch was not about to. When he entered, a thin beam of light cut through the dark, and his arrival was enough to rouse Die from some dark corner and send him slinking out. Just as well, Scratch liked to keep the room to himself when he could. In the dark, it was his eyes that gave his presence away, glowing a light green like some precious jewel under display lights.

2014-09-14 15:06:02
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Slick wouldn't have bothered with another smoke, if not for the need of nicotine to calm his nerves. This time though, instead of lounging around the car, he shut the passenger side door and lighting the cig as he had before. He was grumbling on his way back to the hatch, but froze mid-step as a cool breeze brushed by his cheek and the cold of a raindrop splattered right under his eye. With a glance up, he saw the darkened clouds above become dense and thick, warning of incoming rain. Now, Spades Slick was one who liked the rain, even the cold whether. However, with his attribute of controlling and bending fire to his will, it made being near any source of water a bit troublesome. This fact doesn't necessarily make him hurry to the hatch though. Instead, he stood there on the sidewalk for a moment, attempting to remember the last time it even rained in the city. His body visibly relaxed then, taking a drag of his cig and staring up at the clouds before slowly lowering his gaze. Maybe he could sit outside for just a bit longer...?

He knew he would have to come back to the hideout, or else Droog would think something was up and come check on him. Deuce and Boxcars had started coming back to the hatch by this point, and Spades Slick could see them shoving one another (Deuce barely making Hearts shift an inch, where the latter almost shoves him over the sidewalk and into the road). At first, Slick debates showing himself to them, and eventually backtracked into an alley. More droplets of rain started to drip from the endless sky, earning a slight sneer from the Crew leader as he hear the hatch squeak open, a drunken giggle from Deuce, then the hatch was being locked shut. He doesn't quite know as to why he hid from them, like they would disturb him, which was an inevitable effect by those two, but he felt like... He was holding some secret. Something he couldn't tell the other's about, and he knew damned well what that would be; the ring. Some sort of greed had settled in his stomach, but Slick mistook it for a more protective feeling over the rest of his Crew, not wanting them to feel the same thing he had experienced himself when slipping the item on. They didn't have to know, it wouldn't bring any harm nor benefit for them to know of it, right? Of course.

Eventually, he does use up the rest of his cigarette, dropping it to the floor and grinding his heel over the used butt swiftly. Smoke trailed from his lips, nicotine tainting his tongue, but fog also left his breath as he breathed, the cool temperature of the outdoors dropping almost dramatically as the cold-front settled in. It was already a bit dark outside too, and when he's back in the hideout, instead of seeing what Droog and Boxcars were segueing about in the kitchen, he instead went to his own room. His steel door shut behind himself, blue hue gazing over the clutter on his floor. With a few kicks here and there, he made a presentable path from his door to his bed, sliding off his blazer and tossing it somewhere on the floor. It hit him then that he should probably drop by the Manor, but at the same time he felt a bit bothersome. There was no way the paler man didn't have duties to do like himself, if not more, so he may not have time for him today. With a huff and running a hand over his mattress to make use he wouldn't flop down onto a knife, he sat on the edge of his bed. He could always come by the next day. Besides, maybe tonight he'd go for a wall in the rain; he always found it so calming and the patter of it almost lulled him to sleep. Whilst contemplating this, he tugged the ring from his slack pocket, twirling it between his fingertips idly and not paying his actions much mind as his thumb grazed over one of the pearls. This ring was indeed peculiar...

2014-09-14 15:53:26
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In all honesty, Doc Scratch would not have minded Spades Slick's company right about now, not at all; he would have enjoyed it, actually. He was in for the night, after all, and had settled into one of the love seats in the library, facing the tall windows with his legs tucked beneath him. No company, no one to witness him, and he still practiced impeccable poise, if not a bit relaxed. He really would have appreciated Slick's company now; the temperature in the library had dropped and it was near chilly, but he made no move to fetch a blanket. Scratch only laced his fingers loosely in his lap and sat, gazing out the window.

The rain started slowly; it was the first time in a while they'd had any precipitation, and Scratch had missed it. The humidity had been horrid the past couple of days, including the night he'd gone to the park with Slick. The sun had been down then, but the muggy warmth of the air was something Scratch wouldn't forget. Nor would he the scent, which was a mixture of many things, the city and the grass, the night air and dampness of it all. A permanently present undertone throughout it was the scent of the other man; the faded smell of cigarettes in his car, his clothing, and his skin- just as the temperature had clung to Scratch that night, he felt as if the contact between them did the same, magnetized their skin whenever it touched and made them both reluctant to pull away. It was then Scratch realized he'd closed his eyes and immersed himself in his senses. He was good at reliving things, what with his expansive mind, but more often than not, he had no desire to. Now he did, to some degree, since he had fonder things to dwell on.

When he opened his eyes again, rain was lashing angrily at the windows, peppering them with droplets of water. Then, lightning flashed and illuminated the whole room, seemingly magnified and trapped in the water that dotted the windows. This was what he'd come in here for, and it certainly was not the first time he had done it. Scratch enjoyed the show that was put on during storms; it was a different sort of symphony, pounding rain and thunder that made the windows rattle in their panes. It scared some, and made some sleepy. Scratch was more partial to the latter; storms relaxed him, quieted him in a way. It was humbling to see what nature could do firsthand. Lightning arced, white and the occasional red, giving him brief glimpses of the clouds above, dark and full with rain. The silhouettes hardly changed, and Scratch knew the rain would be here to stay for a while. He didn't have a problem with that at all- it matched the other, more figurative storm that was brewing quite well.

2014-09-14 18:18:37
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... What was so wrong about slipping it on again? Why had he tugged it off in the first place? It was just a measly ring, something that had just given him a taste of something that could only be labeled as true power. It practically cooed his name, twinkling something devious as the light from the cracks in his door glinted off the gold. His icy hue was merely tracing over the ring, and at one point, the metal of his claw scraped it's surface. He didn't even notice the spark of green and yellow that snaked through the metal in practical delight at the action.

"What the fuck is this damned thing...?" He mumbled to himself, listening to the concrete shake and rumble as thunder started to crack and roll overhead. It actually made him look up, as if he could see the dark, sense clouds accumulating and drawing closer to coax a ferocious storm upon the city. It was a dark lullaby, like one of those nights where he'd stay up late after a round of booze and slam on his keys to make a racket of a noise that was a cacophony of twisted piano pieces. Droog once said it sounded like one were scraping ther nails against a chalkboard, and rising the dead from their beds as the chorus.

Slick smirked lightly at that, looking back to the peculiar item he had been twirling between his fingertips. It was then that the twirling stopped, and he raised a brow at his hand. Slowly, ever so cautiously, he shifted the ring, positioning to 'accidentally' slide onto his index.

"Oops..." Came the quick exclaim of false pretensions, and before he knew it, the static had started up again. The scent of ozone wasn't necessarily foreign, nor was it something he was use to. He's smelt it enough times off of Scratch during or after he teleported, but it was more intense now as it practically cracked and flashed off his own skin and clothing. The symptoms of before occurred as well; constricted breathing, heavy bones, and the feeling of a current snaking through his system to only hitch it's fangs into every inch of his nerves, rendering them numb soon enough. His back was scalding, intense with heat as if someone had racked their claws down it; it was hotter and more aggressive then that of Scratch's doings the former night. Such a sensation almost coaxed a howl from him, teeth gritting as he swallowed down the pain and allowed the sudden wave of anger and hostility to pour over himself and soak him to the bone. Spades Slick didn't even notice the ripping of his button up, nor the two masses growing and shifting to his shoulder blades. He was more focused on the way his hand and nails were laced with pain and itching incredibly. He wished to scratch it raw, however his nerves were refusing to move as his eyes dilated and everything went black.

He doesn't know if he passed out, or if his body had blocked out the pain by shutting his body down for a few seconds or so, but when he opens his eyes, everything seems... Brighter. As if someone had cut on a light, but as he looked around, he sees that not a single switch had been flipped. Another thing he noted was how /heavy/ his back felt, as if he were shoved back he would certainly fall. He could finally move his limbs, an slowly brought a hand up, te itching and pain subsiding to a dull, throbbing sensation that could only be power coursing through his veins. It was unfathomable, as if he drank ten cups of coffee and felt as if he could do anything. Upon looking at his hand, he finds his nails were instead sharp talons, not to mention his hand itself was... More animalistic. It still represented a human hand, however it had /fur/ covering every inch, and as his gaze fell down his arm, he saw that the fur traveled more so down, covering every trace of himself. It had coaxed a surprised noise from him, that was nothing but a simple yelp in a very canine-like manner.

"What the /fuck/?!" He thought, hearing something behind himself, and saw the two wings flinching and fluttering slightly from his shoulder blades. He would have been more shocked, more surprised at his different appearance, however something vile and black twisted in his gut at that moment. Something that not just craved blood, but /needed/ it, /desired/ it. As this feelings settles in, a low, guttural growl set in his chest, not a tinge of human tainting his tone as a more animal instinct for gore set in.

2014-09-14 22:09:39
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Doc Scratch let time begin to elapse for him as he watched the storm progress. Sheets of heavy rain driven by ferocious winds assaulted the windows and walls of the Manor, drumming out an aggressive beat on the old green building. The power flickered once or twice, he was aware, and with each time the Felt members who were still awake would look up, seemingly amused by it, but a little nervous as one would be when there was no power. The Manor was huge and it was likely someone would get lost if that did happen. The place was old, and Scratch found it a bit funny nobody ever asked him to turn it back on himself. Maybe they thought it would bother him or he would dismiss the inquiry, or maybe they just didn't think of it at the time. The electricity remained on, however, so no one came to seek Scratch out. He remained still and silent in the library, flashes of light reflecting in his bright green eyes.

Doc Scratch actually looked to be the inanimate doll Spades Slick and so many others had compared him to, if only in their minds; his breath came silently, and his eyes were fixed forward, set on an indeterminable point in the space before him. He was effectively out-of-body at this point, looking without seeing, as if transfixed by the display of weather before him. When he did at last blink, the motion seemed jarring and almost unnatural, somehow startling and frightening. Scratch did not quite want to move, and end the reverie he was currently in, but he knew he would have to eventually. A peal of thunder sounded that was strong enough he almost flinched, and it spurred him to action. When he rose, Scratch heard various bones in his hips and spine pop, stiff from sitting still for so long.

Slowly, the First Guardian rolled his hips, to the left and right, eliciting more of the same sounds. He sighed then, a small strip on his back burning slightly. He knew it was the scar there acting up, and did his best to ignore it. His spine ached from sitting in one position for so long, but it would be begin to fade, as he knew. Scratch turned and started toward the door, exiting the library and starting down the steps. Once he reached the foyer, he turned to the right and started down the next flight of stairs, then turned left toward the den. Doc Scratch did wish Slick had been with him in the library; to watch the storm with, to talk softly with, to keep close. If he had come to the Manor like he'd thought to, Scratch certainly would have prevented him from putting the ring on again, told him what harm it could have done. Maybe he would've been able to convince him it was not worth his time. But that seemed to be painfully idealistic now.

2014-09-14 23:18:22
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He may have freaked out at his appearance first hand, but the burning sensation in his blood and heavy weight in his gut becomes for his attention more so then his feelings towards his features. As he shifted away from his bed, wings shifting and brushing against the concrete ceiling and knocking over a lamp sitting on his nightstand, he caught a glimpse of himself in his mirror located beyond the door connected to his room. It was his bathroom, and in the reflection of the mirror was a beast, teeth as sharp as nails and eyes a ghastly pale color, with a tinge of blue giving it a bit of life. Green and yellow static webbed through his skin, but he didn't necessarily feel the aurges; more so saw them then anything else. He doesn't flinch, nor stumble as he had when pulling off the ring. It was as if rest and weakness didn't exist. Another thing that surprised him a bit was that his arm was gone, or at least the bionic one. With a glance at the floor, he sees that it was nowhere to be seen, and narrows his hue with a missing pupil at that. Oh well, he'll deal with that when he crossed that bridge, and paused as his black ears flicked on the top of his head, tuning into the rumbling that seemed ten-times magnified now; even the scent of ozone was heavier and he could practically taste it.

It was then he noted... Maps, or at least he could only label them as such, weaving themselves through his mental state and sparking to life, like that of the light at the end of a tunnel. He didn't precisely know why this meant, but as he started to relax and focus upon one of the various lights, he found that his vision blurred and tunneled. It would have earned a gasp, but fear seemed intangible at this point. When his vision sparked and clouded with bright white stars, he found himself outside. Static sizzled and smirk rolled off of his shoulders from teleporting, the rain hissing as it hit his skin. Not only was he outside, but he was /floating/. Slick didn't particularly understand how that could be possible, until the light flaps of his wings beat a rythm against his ears, earning a slight sneer and growl in irritation. He was oh so new to this swelling feeling unlimited energy, not to mention physical characteristics that hould draw many questions from himself, but he seemed much, /mucj/ more interested in seeing something burned.

Spades Slick had become the equivalent of a beast being cornered, attempting to claw and bite his way through any situation, though he was fighting an invisible enemy that was nothing more then hunger for blood. Rationality didn't exist, nor did any other emotion except for blood lust. It was a thick craving, one that tainted his tongue with the bitter of iron, even though he hadn't even started a predicament yet. Carefully, he perched on the edge of a building, much more agile and careful then one would expect him to be, and curled his wings close to his back to keep his own balance. His claws dug scars into the granite beneath him, watching the streets fill with people carrying umbrellas and cars busily honking by as rain poured and thunder crackled loudly above him, giving an eerie ambiance. With a huff, fog leaving his muzzle and rain dripping down his fangs, he dived down from his perch, like a hawk swooping down for its prey, and crashed into the top of a car, earning screams and gasps. The too of the vehicle caved in, almost crushing the people inside, and with a wolf-like aggressive growl, the car went up in flames.

2014-09-14 23:57:26
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The den was alive with jocular voices tossing jokes and conversation pieces around; it wasn't late enough for some to start turning in yet, and the bulk of the Felt were still up and causing a jovial ruckus. Scratch counted eight present in the den; Eggs and Biscuits were asleep by now, Clover was out in the city (predictably enough), Fin and Trace were off stewing, Die was in his own room, and Stitch just down the hall. Everyone was accounted for, and Scratch let himself relax slightly. He leaned against the bar, crossing his arms and promptly raising his left hand in order to satisfy a nervous habit of his, biting his thumbnail. Clover wasn't here, but that didn't matter much; Scratch was sure his uncanny luck would protect him from anything, if he even was in the same place as Slick was currently, so there was next to nothing to worry about. The other Felt members paid Scratch little mind, though they were all a lot less likely to fight as they had been earlier while under his supervision. Slightly more on edge than before, they continued without anyone addressing Scratch.

Doc Scratch was not about to raise a panic; nobody had to know what was going on outside the Manor's walls, and if he had his say in things, nobody would. He might not even have to leave the mansion himself- the pale man certainly wasn't about to go into the city himself and cause even more of a spectacle. Scratch was fully aware civilians were in danger, but in blunt honesty they were none of his concern. He was no hero, and if asked, he would be the last person around to label himself a good man. It didn't sit perfectly fine with him, but he had an obligation to protect those around him. The Felt took capital precedence at this point in time, as Scratch's charges and what had to be a prime target for Slick now. If he vaguely remembered the Felt as something he wanted to eradicate, he would not hesitate to do so now that he had the power. Scratch knew how much he hated Snowman, and that was only one of them. A thought of him would be lost in the torrent of bloodlust the man would be consumed in.

On some level, Scratch should've been thankful for the mindless state Spades Slick had been forced into; if he were any more clearheaded, he'd be almost rational and more difficult to combat. All the power was still new to him and was overwhelming, especially to the man who hadn't had it beforehand. It was clear to Scratch he needed to get that ring off of him; it was entirely feasible the power within could burn the wearer to nothing inside but dependency on the item. The notion was frightening, but Scratch knew he had to conduct himself properly if he wished to come out on top here- and coming out on top entailed saving Slick, too. Scratch knew he shouldn't have staked so much on it, but it was impossible not to, as attached as they were now. He cared about Spades Slick, but he was sure the other man had no thoughts of him right now- only destruction and discord.

2014-09-15 02:33:12
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One would be right in thinking he was mind clouded, and another would be right in thinking tearing down the entire city he practically raised up himself was a task he wished to do himself. As the rain poured on, it slowly made the purple lapping flames that had consumed a copious amount of vehicle on the road die down. That didn't necessarily settle correctly in Slick, but he didn't seem to pay it much mind as smoke came up in clouds and pedestrians started to shelter into nearby buildings. One of the first of said buildings to come crumbling down was not only a bar, but the same one as the one Crocker owned. Whether or not he was still in the building was debatable, but the power intoxicated Spades Slick didn't take that into account as he flew up the side of the building, cracking and breaking any window on the way up, before simply lighting it up with fire. He still had some left over irritation from earlier encounters by the man, and considering it wasn't even mild hatred, he would certainly let loose on someone who even vaguely pissed him off. What was a bit shocking was the fact none of the other members of his Crew knew of the havoc, and once they did, undoubtedly they'd stay inside the hideout, looking for their boss and slightly worrisome as to what to do.

They wouldn't do anything in the end. More so sit there and contemplate what the hell Slick was up to now, only to later, much later, realize what was going on. As the fire in the building began lapping inward, there was a sound of glass breaking and loud coughing of variating people. Next thing he knows, there's an explosion and the scent of alcohol and burnt leather in the air. It brought a bit of satisfaction, but it wasn't even remotely enough. So on went his destruction, and though the medical and law enforces have been called by this point, the fire department was too busy putting out the strange flames and medics too busy trying to save people from their crisply burned cars or from an aflame store. If one cared to pay attention, they would undoubtedly see the direction in which the winged beast was taking, and would see that eventually, at it's end point, it would indeed end up crossing the Felt Manor. Every inch that he grew closer, he grew more use to the powers, more aware of what he could do, and eventually when he had been confronted by a cop vehicle or two and they attempted to riddle him with bullets, he found the teleportation skill worked efficiently upon transporting objects other then himself. As two cops lay bloodied and half dead on the road, their cars were also destroyed and something in a store, during his punishing towards the one's who tried to kill him, had caught his attention. It was nothing more then a knife, something he had plenty of, but it was more so along the lines of a sedated swore sitting in a stand of an antique shop. There was no better way on testing it out then on the owner, and soon he found the weapon was dependable Ashe came out the window he'd crashed in with said bloodied blade.

Some inner part of himself relentlessly attempted to coax the beast into calming down a bit, into also taking some time to think things over an calculate his moves. The more greedier side of himself didn't care enough to listen, and continued upon his process. Why didn't he just directly attack the manner? Well, there were a couple reasons. One, why skip all the havoc he could surely ensue on the way there? There certainly wouldn't be enough time in the day to finish everything up, and he undoubtedly would need a rest after using up such much of his former ability of fire to do some dirty work. And two, that small, more rational part of himself... Didn't seem so thrilled in heading that direction. He didn't necessarily know why this feeling insisted upon making him dawdle and take longer upon lighting up the city as showers of rain cast down in heavy sheets, but it was there. It was indeed increasing in almost a panic-like sense as the green mansion was soon seen in his gaze. By that point, his whole forearm was covered in gore and dripping crimson on the granite floor. As tired as he should be by this point, he feels as energized as ever and almost... Unstoppable, really. The fear of being taken over was nonexistent, and maybe that was what should have terrified him the most.

2014-09-15 06:10:53
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The only one who would've recognized Scratch's current body language was Stitch, who thankfully wasn't in the room at the time. Else, he'd likely ask what was wrong and be met with a rather taciturn Scratch who didn't want to let a single detail out. Instead, his position, leaning with one leg crossed loosely over the other and his arms crossed, seemed to denote causality, a more relaxed countenance. This was a very effective ruse seeing as currently Scratch found his heart throbbing harder in its place, superimposed over the underlying sound of blood rushing through his ears. He felt the compulsive need to pull his suit jacket off; his skin was already beginning to warm, to an almost uncomfortable degree. It wasn't warmth like another human close by or even the warm air would produce, but a more raw and sickening sort, akin to what a hot flash or anxiety would produce. In Scratch's case, it was like starting a car early to let it warm up, and he knew he'd have to step out eventually.

Once he did, no one really looked up, and if they noticed they didn't quite mind. Scratch didn't blame them. The air in the hallway was much cooler, and almost had him shiver from the shock of it. He was already tugging at his white jacket, fingers almost clumsy as he slid the buttons from their slits. There was a coatrack in the foyer, and it found its way there; Scratch didn't want it on now of all times, it'd get ruined without a doubt. The man let out a shuddering exhale, beginning to roll his sleeves up, like he had that night (which felt as it it were weeks ago) when he's gone to fetch Fin and Trace. But now he wore no revolver. It wasn't necessary that time, and this time it was out of the question. Under no circumstances would he shoot Spades Slick, even while he was this... Thing. Scratch was almost certain whatever damage took in this state would not transfer to his human form, but he still did not wish to harm the man. He was certain this would make the entire ordeal more difficult.

His gloves were left in the pocket of his jacket; Scratch felt he was better off this way, and though his bare hands never looked very threatening, they were capable enough. Looks could be deceiving, and Scratch supposed that ring fell under the same standards. No matter what happened to him, he had to get it off of Spades Slick. He had dual resolve as he stepped out onto the porch: keeping the Felt safe from Slick, and saving the other man. If any of them did witness it, they'd only see it as the neutralization of a threat, not Scratch attempting to help the other man. This, at the very least, was good.

Rain was still pouring down, and the air was heavy and pungent with the scent, laced with ozone at the same time. Scratch knew it wasn't fully natural, either; in the city, Slick was wreaking havoc with his fire, using absolutely no discretion in doing so. Personally, losing control like that frightened Scratch- he knew what he was capable of doing under his own volition, and it was horrid enough. Slick- or whatever part of him was still left-would get to see that now, as dismaying as it was. On the porch, Scratch was safe from the rain, at least until the time came to confront the other; within minutes he'd be soaked to the bone, then, and no doubt bloodied as well.

2014-09-15 11:28:18
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To Slick, it comes of no surprise that someone is waiting for him at tha Manor. He might have been a bit more aggravated if someone hadn't, to be honest. Though, as he's floating down the road, wings beating a slow rythm in order to keep him from touching the floor and his sword grazing it's tip lightly against the granite, the sight of the pale figure almost makes him freeze up. Some flags go off in his head, and some familiar feeling occurs at the sight of his sleeves rolled up, as if that were a warning in and of itself. Slowly and cautiously, his wings stop beating and he drops to the floor, crouching slightly as he drew closer to the manor, but isn't draw within a handful of yards of it. For some reason, he couldn't outright lash out, not like he had with the other beings in the city he didn even hesitate to either decapitate or penetrate trough the gut with his sword. No, a more quiet and less dominant part of himself was practically chanting a string of curses and 'no, no, no, no, no's repeatedly in his head. It made his outward response flinch at the conflicting emotions that, one; wanted to just slice this being before him into sushi, and two; turn tail and retreat to the city. There were a couple reasons he should have turned tail, and he found his more suspicious side not liking the way Scratch was merely waiting for him. The other portion was jut overall against laying a single hand on him; not necessarily out of fear he himself would get hurt, but that he may indeed hurt the pale deity.

These insistent emotions made the beast crouch a bit more, his ears thy had been proudly perked above his head now shifting to slide back and flatten near his temples. It was a more submissive manner then anything else, maybe a warning on some levels, but he resisted to drop his weapon or wipe the deep snarl ripped across his features that exposed sharp canine teeth. A low growl of annoyance then came from Slick, and the wings behind himself shook once, hard, to rid the feathers of rain as he blinked away a few droplets that almost insisted to slip into his eye. The wing were even a bit tilted, as if mimicking his ears and lowering at his sides, but to counter such a movement his bloodied hand curled tightly around the handle to his scerated sword. If he could talk, he certainly would, an the first words to come out of his mouth would have been, "Move." It would have been said in a thick tone, more then impatient, if not utterly devoid of sympathy or even remote affection he had not too long ago showered over Doc Scratch.

The rain itself was chilling, almost too cold for one's taste, but it seemed to practically sizzle off of him and come off in small curls of steam that continuously rolled off of his skin. If one touched him, he would seem hot to the simple touch and whether it was from the copious amounts of energy in him, or the growing fury that settled in the pit of his stomach, it wasn't too clear. Likewise, the static flickered and weaved from and through his skin, even reaching out to snag the sword and lace it with such currents. No, he wouldn't go down easily, and he certainly wouldn't allow someone to simply slip the ring off of him. Even if that meant utterly demolishing everything in his path to make sure no one would even think of touching his most prized possession at the moment.

2014-09-15 12:37:37
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Doc Scratch could not help but allow a slight hint of his revulsion creep onto his features; his eyes narrowed, lip curling slightly as he examined the changes that had come over Spades Slick firsthand. His originally-rugged features had been reshaped into a snout and fangs that were bared in a snarl more animalistic than usual. Slick would sneer all he liked and it never looked half as monstrous as it did now. His cut ears had flattened against his head, and Scratch could read his body language even now. It might not have been the porcelain man he'd come here to fight, but he wouldn't hesitate to go through him in order to reach his intended target. No- Slick wouldn't go through him. Scratch wouldn't allow that, of all things. The only way to the Felt was by defeating Scratch and that feat had never been accomplished. It would not be, not now.

Scratch observed the steam rising off of Slick and felt a sickening twinge in his gut. The behavior Slick was exhibiting in regards to how his power was channeled proved to be unsettlingly familiar. Slick had a cursed ring, however, and Doc Scratch had a sun. As he descended the few stone steps leading up the porch and entered into the rain, there was a quiet hiss. Dark green mist began to roll off of him, in larger quantities than it had that night in the Midnight Crew's cellar. By the looks of his expression, he was nowhere near backing down, or letting Slick at the green mansion behind. In fact, this was the closed to angry Slick had ever seen him, and it was not even true anger; it was grim determination, firm resolve the Felt's leader had no intent to allow dissipate. He faced whatever the creature in front of him was without a hint of fear, and it radiated off of him, tangible like the murky, sickly green mist that surrounded him.

The precipitation wasn't evaporating on him, really; his hair was quickly dampened and his dress shirt followed suit, clinging to the white skin beneath. Scratch acted as if he did not take notice of the rain, which had gradually begun to let up. It had not ceased entirely and would not for a while- but their fight would be more audible now, without the insistent hammering of rain on the ceiling. Thunder still rumbled above, however the lightning seemed more abated than it had been. There would be enough of it soon, Doc Scratch mused. While he did intend to protect the Manor and those within, he had no intent to make the first move. He'd stare Slick, or whatever it was across from him now, down all night if need be. While he knew Slick recognized him somewhere in there, he doubted the man would have enough control over his faculties to wrench his own power back.

2014-09-15 18:14:29
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This more uncontrollable and much more reckless side of Slick was undoubtedly willing to do anything at this point to continue his tyranny. Such aggression certainly wouldn't stop with just the Manor either; once, and if, he finally burned it to ash, he'd move further, beyond the city, causing havoc and setting everything ablaze. Of course, he would have to finish what he started with Midnight City and burn it straight to the ground, making it nothing but leveled ground, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was more so focused upon the pale man in front of himself. As Scratch stepped forward, onto the stepping stones, the rain seemed to let up as if holding its breath as the two exchanged displeased expressions. Everything was tense, and not even the oddly colored steam that rolled off of the shorter man's shoulders was calm. An onlooker would simply have chills at this point, on the edge of their seat as Spades Slick shifted where he stood.

He didn't dash forward, nor simply lash outright. Instead, he observed the other, growling quietly, in warning for hi not to draw any closer as his nose twitched with picking up a disgustingly familiar scent that was almost too sweet with his heightened senses. The only thing between him and Doc Scratch was the green iron gate that bordered the Felt Manor. His cold colored hue with a perturbingly missing pupil grazed over the green gates, looking them over curiously before stepping up to the entrance. He could have simply crushed the fence, maybe even melted it, but that wasn't the priority of his attention at the moment. With a fraction of a second pause, there's a flash and light crackle, and he has instead teleported himself inside the gated area. He'd end up crashing into it one way or another, and he had bigger things to worry about as of now.

His ears that's had been pinned at his temples have now raised back up, facing the pale figure and tuning into every little move and noise he made. From the dripping of water down his frame, to the glare set his way. As the feeling of worry and angst started to subside to a vague tinge in his gut, his wings shifted finally and curled up tightly at his back. The sound like that of rope tightening could be heard as his muscles and grip tightened dramatically, then without much of a warning other then a foggy snort, he teleported directly in front of Scratch, fangs bared down at him and a roar like that of a fully enraged animal coming from his fangs. His arm raised up to the dripping skies, then came down to harshly slash his sword directly at the other's cranium in an attempt to decapitate him.

2014-09-15 23:51:33
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Similar to Spades Slick's subdued and struggling conscious, part of Doc Scratch was chanting a litany of denial, 'no' repeating ceaselessly in his mind. He didn't want to believe this monster standing opposite him was the other man- but he knew it was, and knew it really was Slick who had been corrupted by the ring. The latter fact wasn't as present in his mind- to him, it always would be Slick, even if only a drop of the other's original mind remained. He wished he could separate the man and monster in his own head, but knew he couldn't; even though he couldn't bring himself to blame Slick for his actions, each and every one of them still belonged to the Midnight Crew's leader in his head. It was Spades Slick who growled at him, Spades Slick whose antifreeze blue eye narrowed coldly at him, and Spades Slick who made the move to rend his head from his body. It was almost enough to make Scratch hesitate in his own action. Almost.

The bloodied blade Slick had acquired came directly down in an arc toward Scratch, but the man's reflexes were peak; it was a narrow dodge to the right that spared him, but he wasn't concerned due to the nearness of the blade. He knew every degree which separated him from the sharp length and point; he knew just how close he could get without being hurt, and where the sword would next move. This was much the same reason nobody would play pool with him- Scratch could calculate every angle of trajectory needed, how much force to use, and where. He could pocket several balls simply on the break shot, and that alone was enough to turn most other players off. This was where that skill came in handy, however; in a fight Doc Scratch could not only predict the other combatant's moves but determine what the best ones he could make in response were.

At this point, that move happened to be crouching low before springing up with astonishing speed toward the beast in front of him. The swiftness of his movement was not the only surprisingly drastic thing; he had moved to knock his opponent down with his shoulder, and if the blow did connect, it would be a prime example of Scratch's superhuman strength and the fact he was not going to hold back; no matter how strong his desire to leave Slick unharmed was, his strikes would be stronger, and his accuracy unwavering. What Scratch meant was to pin Slick down, keep him down by force, and pull the ring off himself. It was not melded to the skin, and would be removed, but not without strenuous resistance from the wearer. Scratch was sure he could match the aggressor step for step, and even outmatch him- he just had to keep himself from hesitating.

2014-09-16 01:17:03